


Summertime Sadness

by relativelystupid



Series: What Do I Have Here? [5]
Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 02:03:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3191375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relativelystupid/pseuds/relativelystupid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone dies. He knew that, but he never really was aware of it. </p>
<p>Now he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summertime Sadness

**Author's Note:**

> SONG IS LANA DEL REY'S "SUMMERTIME SADNESS" AND I DO NOT OWN IT OR ANYTHING. IT'S HERS. AND SHE'S HOT.

Summertime Sadness  
He remembers when he sang Summertime Sadness. He didn’t like it, at first, he found it too dependent, too hard hitting. It was still like that, but now, it was like he was channelling his inner Lana Del Rey. It was fun, before the time now. They sung it in a concert, he got sick right after, then they got stuck in the snow, then… life continued.  
Kirstie was the first to go.  
He remembers it clearly, they were chatting by his bedside as he braided her hair, their eyes closed as they hummed old ‘80s songs, small smiles on their faces. It was their usual protocol. Jeremy was just so unbearable that night, and he remembers his friend crying on his shoulder, face buried in his neck, tears falling into his tie-dyed shirt, hands clasping his. He thinks, I’ve felt this way before. I’ve felt pain in bulks like she has. He remembers pale green-blue eyes and perfectly coiffed blonde hair, and he grasps her hand back, throat hitching. He hugged her close, hand burying itself in her still maroon hair, and they cried together.  
“Thank you,” she had whispered, kissing him straight on the lips, and he didn’t burrow into it, just let her take, and she pulled away, lying beside his body, and slipped into slumber.  
He stood and made his way into the bathroom, and cried as he slit long lines into his arms, deep enough to bleed, deep enough to hurt, but not deep enough to kill.  
He didn’t look at himself in the mirror. He didn’t even try. He knew what he’d see.  
He would see a failed, frail person with a weak heart, with his melody slipping between his fingers, brown eyes dulling into the deep abyss of ebony. He cried, feeling liquid seep down his arms, choked sobs ripping from his throat, and he left, sitting in the balcony, letting the blood dry on his arms and hands, dripping onto the white ivory tiles, stark in contrast.  
That morning, when he snapped out of his daze, he found Kirstie in his bathtub, her own wrists slit so long he wondered if she let the pain drag out as long as she had blood. He sat beside her, breathing into her neck, feeling the coldness wrap his body, his heart skipping a beat. He stared straight ahead, not calling anyone until the pungent smell of post mortem hit his face.  
She was decaying. She’s gone. He called Avi.  
The funeral was gloomy. The sun was shining, Avi was trying so hard not to break down and sob, with Kevin holding him up, his usually laughing face turning into one of stolidity, eyes red rimmed and devoid of any emotion, and he figured it was because Avi needed him most now. He didn’t speak to anyone during the funeral. He gave Kevin and Avi a fleeting glance, before looking at their key member, Scott, and pulling on his sunglasses, and walking off, hands shoved deep into his pea coat, fisting so hard he was sure they were white. He went out and let himself be drunk to oblivion that night, and he vaguely remembers someone say he was beautiful in passing, and he remembers feeling nothing as they took their pleasure from his small body, and he felt his heart skip a beat, like it was slowly stopping.  
“Do you… are you afraid of death?” he had slurred, or he thought he did, and the man grunted, whispering ‘yeah’ as he turned him to his side, slipping into him once more, and he remembers, in passing, that he felt numb.  
That morning, as the man left, he sat on his bed, a cigarette hanging low on his pale, dying lips, dragging the equally pale razor up his forearm, eyes rolling to the back of his head, a failed moan leaving his lips.  
It was three months until Kevin went, too.  
Scott and Avi were there, and he was just standing off to the side, cigarette trapped between his bony fingers, cuts on his chin in an aborted try in shaving, and he didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Scott seemed to fill that void up for him and Avi. Avi tried to come near him, eyes red and the green of his irises sad and dead. He figured, as he went home that day, with another man carrying him to bed, he mused, that his life would never be better.  
He gave it two months until Avi went, too.  
In that two months, he danced around men, with his protruding hipbones and high cheekbones, cigarettes and long lashes, and he didn’t move from this position until Scott came barging in his apartment, a smile on his face. He had brought Wyatt, but he was too caught up with the man inside his mouth, the other behind him, and he remembers Scott’s look of disdain and disgust.  
He went for a drive that evening. With the top down, he played Summertime Sadness, their own cover, well, his and Scott’s. They recorded it two days before Kirstie passed. Without thinking about it, he drove to Avi’s, and he felt lips press against his, arms wrapping around his waist, his own arms wrapping around a scruffy, thick neck, and all was well for a single moon.  
He found his friend dead beside him when the clock struck one in the morning.  
He didn’t know who he should call.  
He watched Avi twitch, tears streaming down his face, mouth bubbling. He kissed his forehead, sweaty against his dry lips, and he left, wrapped in only a thick coat, boots barely keeping the cold from his body. He called 911, and walked to his car. He didn’t feel fear, or sadness, or pain.  
He didn’t go to the funeral anymore. He could see the articles about them, about him, judging him, calling him the whore of Babylon, and unsurprisingly, he wasn’t fazed. He remembers seeing Wyatt mewl at him from his apartment floor, and for the first time in a long, long time, he felt anger. He felt anger because with a single cough, he was gone. So was his life. This body, this small, pale, frail, and weak body was only a shell of the man he once was. He felt anger because they never held onto what they had, he was not that important. He could be easily replaced. They could’ve still lived if not for him. If he didn’t smile in the snow, if he didn’t step in the cold. They would still be singing, smiling, even without him, but it was too late. He felt a scream rip his throat. No more. He swung, glass shattering, embedding themselves in his thin arms filled with slices and scars, and then there was blood running down his face, down his neck.  
It was all his fault.  
Scott found him in the morning.  
He was admitted, and was declared clinically insane.  
It’s been four years. He’s twenty-six today. Would anyone visit him? No one would.  
He danced in his room, using the small bread knife to cut into his leg, red painting his hospital gown, and he danced, waltzed, waltzed, waltzed…  
Scott came that night. ”Mitch…” he breathed against his lips, and Mitch… was that his name? He forgot. He was called so many names that he didn’t know anymore.  
For the last time, he felt happiness.  
“Got my bad baby by my heavenly side, I know if I go, I'll die happy tonight,” he sang against the blonde’s lips, feeling Scott, yet seeing Travis, then Avi, and Kevin, and Kirstie.  
“Kiss me hard before I go, summertime sadness…I just wanted you to know…” Mitch gasps, the bread knife’s cut bleeding evermore.  
“That… you’re th-the best…” he breathed.  
This was the last funeral Scott Hoying was attending.  
Esther Kaplan opened the newspaper, and felt her heart constrict as she saw the headline.  
 _Scott Hoying found dead with alleged lover, Mitch Grassi.  
 __Summertime Sadness covered by Pentatonix played, with Mitch’s soft, angelic voice leading, and she knew they don’t remember the last song they recorded as a group. She closed the newspaper and put on her glasses, arranging one last funeral._


End file.
